“Well?” Judith Niles tensed as she waited for his answer.
“Not quite — but closer than we’ve ever come before.” De Vries was all sly satisfaction. “Would you believe an average total daily sleep of twenty-nine minutes? And he doesn’t sit in a chair and nod off for the odd few minutes when nobody’s looking. We had him hooked up to a telemetry unit for eleven days. We have the fullest biochemical tests that we could make. You’ll see my full report as soon as someone can transcribe it for you.”
“I want it today. Tell Joyce Savin that it’s top priority.” Judith Niles gave de Vries a little nod of approval. “Anything else?”
“Nothing good enough to tell. I’ll have my complete report for you tomorrow.” He winked across the table at Charlene. And she’ll never read it, said his expression. The Director depended on her staff to keep track of the details. No one ever knew how much time she would spend on any particular staff report. Sometimes the smallest element of data would engage her attention for days, at other times major projects would run unstudied for months.
Judith Niles took a quick look at her watch. “Dr. Bloom, you’re next. Keep it as short as possible — I’d like to squeeze our visitor in before lunch if we can.” But at my back I always hear, Time’s winged chariot hurrying near… Charlene gritted her teeth. JN was obsessed with sleep and time. And most of what Charlene could offer was bad news.
She bent her head over her notebook, reluctant to begin.
“We just lost one of the Kodiaks,” she said abruptly. There was a rustle of movement as everyone at the long table sat up straighter. Charlene kept her head bowed. “Gibbs took Dolly down to a few degrees above freezing and tried to maintain a positive level of brain activity.”
Now there was a charged silence in the room. Charlene swallowed, felt the lump in her throat, and hurried on. “The procedure is the same as I described in last week’s report for the Review Committee. But this time we couldn’t stabilize. The brain wave patterns were hunting, seeking new stable levels, and there were spurious alpha thresholds. When we started to bring the temperature back up all the body functions just went to hell. Oscillations everywhere. I brought the output listings with me, and if you want to see them I’ll pass them round.” “Later.” Judith Niles’ expression was a mixture of concentration and anger. Charlene knew the look. The Director expected everyone — everything — to share her drive toward Zero Sleep. Dolly had failed them. JN’s face had turned pale, but her voice was calm and factual.
“Gibbs, you said? Wolfgang Gibbs. He’s the heavy-set fellow with curly hair? Did he handle the descent and ascent operations himself?”
“Yes. But I have no reason to question his competence — “
“Nor do I, I’m not suggesting that. I’ve read his reports. He’s good.” Judith Niles made a gesture to the secretary at her side. “Were there any other anomalies that you consider significant?”
“There was one.” Charlene Bloom took a deep breath and turned to a new page of her notebook. “When we were about fifteen degrees above freezing, the brain wave patterns hit a very stable form. And Wolfgang Gibbs noticed one very odd thing about them. They seemed to be the same profile as the brain rhythms at normal temperature, just stretched out in time.”
She paused. At the end of the table, Judith Niles had suddenly jerked upright. “How similar?”
“We didn’t run it through the computer yet. To the eye they were identical — but fifty times as slow as usual.”
For a fraction of a second Charlene thought she saw a look flicker between Judith Niles and Jan de Vries, then the Director was staring at her with full intensity. “That’s something I want to see for myself. Later today, Dr. de Vries and I will come out to the hangar and take a look at this project. But let’s run over it in a little more detail now, when we’re all here. How long did you hold the stable phase, and what was the lowest body temperature? And what about tryptophan settings?”
Below table level, Charlene rubbed her hands along the side of her skirt. They were in for a digging session, she just knew it. Her hands were beginning to tremble, and she could feel new sweat on her palms. Was she well- prepared? She’d know in a few minutes. With the Director in the mood for detail, the visitor to the Institute might be in for a long wait.
CHAPTER THREE
For Hans Gibbs it was turning into a long and confusing day.
When first suggested, a Downside visit to the U.N. Institute for Neurology in Christchurch had sounded like the perfect break from routine. He would have a week in full earth gravity instead of the quarter-gee of PSS-One. He would gain a batch of exercise credits, and he needed all he could scrape together. He’d be able to pick up a few things Downside that were seldom shuttled up as cargo — how long since anyone on PSS-One had tasted an oyster? And even though Christchurch was down in New Zealand, away from the political action centers, he’d be able to form his own impressions on recent world tensions. There were lots of charges and counter-accusations flying about, but chances are it was more of the same old bluster that the Downsiders mislabelled as diplomacy.
Best of all, he could spend a couple of evenings with randy old Wolfgang. The last time they’d been out on the town together, his cousin had still been married. That had put a crimp on things (but less than it should have — one reason maybe why Wolfgang wasn’t married now?).
The trip down had been a disaster. Not the Shuttle flight, of course; that had been a couple of hours of relaxation, a smooth re-entry followed by activation of the turbofans and a long powered coast to Aussieport in northern New Guinea. The landing had been precisely on schedule. But that was the last thing that went according to plan.
The Australian spaceport, servicing Australia, New Zealand and Micronesia, normally prided itself on informality and excitement. According to legend, a visitor could find within a few kilometers of the port every one of the world’s conventional vices, plus a few of the unconventional ones (cannibalism had been part of native life in New Guinea long after it had disappeared elsewhere). Today all informality had disappeared. The port had been filled with grim-faced officials, intent on checking every item of his baggage, documents, travel plans, and reason for arrival. He had been subjected to four hours of questioning. Did he have relatives in Japan or the United States? Did he have sympathies with the Food Distribution Movement? What were his views on the Australian Isolationist Party? Tell us, in detail, of any new synthetic food manufacturing processes developed for the outbound arcologies.
Plenty was happening there, as he readily admitted, but he was saved by simple ignorance. Sure, there were new methods for synthetics, good ones, but he didn’t know anything about them — wouldn’t be permitted to know about them; they carried a high level of commercial secrecy.
His first gift for Wolfgang — a pure two-carat gemstone, manufactured in the orbiting autoclave on PSS-One — was retained for examination. It would, he was curtly informed, be sent along to his lodgings at the Institute if it passed inspection. His other gift was confiscated with no promise of return. Seeds developed in space might contaminate some element of Australasian flora. His patience had run out at that point. The seeds were sterile, he pointed out. He had brought them along only as a novelty, for their odd shapes and colors. “What the hell has happened to you guys?” he complained. “It’s not the first time I’ve been here. I’m a regular — just take a look at those visas. What do you think I’m going to do, break into Cornwall House and have a go at the First Lady?”
They looked back at him stonily, evaluating his remark, then went on with the questioning. He didn’t try any more backchat. Two years ago the frantic sex life of the Premier’s wife had been everybody’s favorite subject. Now it didn’t rate a blink. If much of Earth was like this, the climatic changes must be producing worse effects than anyone in the well-to-do nations was willing to admit. The less lucky ones spoke of it willingly enough, pleading for help at endless and unproductive sessions of the United Nations.
When he was finally allowed to close his luggage and go on his way, the fast transport to Christchurch had already left. He was stuck with a Mach-One pond-hopper, turning an hour’s flight into a six-hour marathon. At every stop the baggage and document inspection was repeated.
By the time they made the last landing he was angry, hungry, and tired out. The entry formalities at Christchurch seemed to go on forever, but he recognized that they were perfunctory compared with those at
